The Encroaching Darkness (ASOIAF-GOT AU OC)
by PrimeOrbis
Summary: War and tribulation to the west; while a fire of vengeance and justice blazed through the east. All the while a plague of unstoppable darkness descends upon the world. How can two people from vastly differing backgrounds, with dissimilar motives, desires and cares thrive – or even survive - with the trials to come? Contains elements of both show and books & 2 new characters
1. Prologue

**The Encroaching Darkness (ASOIAF/GOT AU OC)**

AN: I'm an avid long-time reader with sudden urges to write every so often. I haven't had the time to do so, unfortunately, so this is my first attempt at writing anything more complicated than a grocery shopping list.

While not going to deep, I would like to say that I've had this idea for a while now. I intend to take elements of both the show and the books, while introducing 2 OCs of my own. One to the west and one to the east.

As I said, I'm a novice as far as writing is concerned, so I'll need my senpai's, hopefully constructive, criticism and advice. I also hate grammatical errors and misspelled words like the plague; so please point them out wherever found.

Thank you.

 **Prologue**

 **The Red Keep, King's Landing**

She could scarcely believe it. No, she _refused_ to believe it. How could this be possible? Jaime, her other half, defeated and captured by those filthy damned inhabitants of a miserable barren wasteland. Cersei replenished her goblet with more wine. She had initially dropped it in shock. Her sodden silk-of-gold gown was dripping with wasted Arbor gold but she didn't give any thought to it. Father would just bu- _Father_! If she was numb with this revelation, how in seven hells must he be feeling?

Cersei could easily imagine his unbridled rage. His prize child - the most handsome talented knight to have been birthed this century – captured by a smaller host of Northmen lead by a green boy. Cersei, despite herself, grinned viciously. Her father's rage was uncontainable, while yet still his greatest motivator. For all his talk of family and respect, she knew that pride was all he truly cared for. By taking his heir prisoner, the Starks had endangered his legacy. It was only a matter of time until her beloved Jaime's retrieval. Or their destruction.

If there ever was a man not to be crossed, it was Tywin of the House Lannister.

Now that the wine was fulfilling it's purpose, she felt much more calm. She realized that House Lannister still had the advantage. After all, the Starks wouldn't dare harm their most valuable hostage; certainly not while they believed she still held both their daughter's lives in the palm of her hand. She breathed a smooth, silent, sigh of relief.

A knock came at the door to her chambers. She frowned and called out to bid entry. Her handmaiden - Syri? No, Senelle – entered timorously.

"Well? What do you want?" Cersei questioned her impatiently. There were, after all, very few matters that concerned her at the moment and even fewer that required a servant's involvement.

"B-beg your pardon, your grace but the lords of the Small Council were wishing for your presence. They would like to hold a meeting. To discuss the war."

As fragile as she appeared, she was sturdier than she seemed, Cersei had to grant her that; she had only stuttered once. While she felt too lethargic to warrant the journey only to see the shrivelled toad, the bald fragrant eunuch, the self-satisfied jowls of the rodent and the sharp beard, sharper eyes of the mockingbird; she had a duty to perform.

She had to give the appearance of resolute power and resolve, lest these ambitious worms be given the notion that House Lannister was starting to crumble. In any case, the realm required ruling and who better than her?

"Very well. I shall make my way to the Small Council chambers. Hurry along and relay my message." Cersei got to her feet, sauntering leisurely toward her drawers in order to change out of her gown. Mid-way across her room, just as the girl was taking her hurried leave, she stopped and slowly turned her head. "Kindly take note, wench. None of those pretentious fools are lords. They are advisors to my son, your king, and myself. To be appointed or dismissed as I please. They are masters in name only. The only ones worthy of reverence in this city – _on this continent_ \- are myself." And then, almost as if an afterthought;

"And my son."

Cersei returned to her chambers, just as the great orb of liquid gold in the sky began it's steady trek westward, far angrier than she had left them.

First, her grotesque little brother returned, after spending a year away gallivanting through the seven kingdoms; as though nothing had happened. As though Jaime wasn't captured as result of a war _he_ had caused. To rule Joffrey's realm – _her_ realm – as Hand of the King. _As Hand!_ What fit of madness could have possessed Father to decide that the misshapen mistake of their family was fit for such a role? Tyrion was many things; as drunken as he was well-read and as lustful as he was cunning but to rule required a presence that words alone could not fill.

Father scarcely said a two dozen words at a time while holding court during his period as Hand to Aerys. His stare alone spoke volumes. She had watched, listened, imitated and learned more from him than Jaime or Tyrion had ever done. How could not see that?

Then, to be brazenly reproached by that weasel, Baelish, was near more than she could take. Though she had ordered her guards to stand down, it would have been so easy – so satisfying – to cut his verbose throat. But she needed him. The eunuch's search for the missing Stark girl was evidently unfruitful and with Jaime's capture her location was of increasing importance. With his wealth, contacts and whores, he could perchance have more luck. If not well, at least he was being put to some use. More than could be said for Pycelle or Slynt.

One acted as though he was as old as the Citadel itself, while whoring more than most young men; the other was more preoccupied with eating as much fine food and purchasing as many as fine garments as would befit the Lord of Harrenhal - a most temporary position, she assured herself – than he was doing his duty, keeping the King's peace as Lord Commander of the City Watch. With the war to the north and Renly's vast approaching host to the south, not to mention Stannis's horde of ships to the east, the people of the King's Landing were more hungry and more unruly than ever.

Finally, as if the gods were mocking her vile day, her own son dared to slap her. Within the Great Hall, in plain view of half the unwashed labourers of the Red Keep. Her! His regent, his mother and the only person in this stinking dung-pile of a city that cared for him. Could he not see that he was simply giving all those beady watchful eyes more reasons to dare doubt their power? Was she doomed to be surrounded by flatterers, cowards, drunks and fools?

Wait. There was _that_ person.

The _one_ person she could rely on through these troubling times. The only person who had paid as much attention to Father as she had; if not more. The only person that she could trust.

Cersei gracefully swept through the arches of the gallery, deep in thought. Would he come if summoned? Of course he would, her inner voice claimed. She was his family. When family was at stake, none were as solid, as unshakeable and as powerful as House Lannister.

That night, as the sun set in Westerlands, Cersei's mind was set. A quill was up-taken, a letter of both plea and command was inscribed and sealed with her personal seal.

The Crouching Lioness.


	2. Chapter 1

**The Encroaching Darkness** **(ASOIAF/GOT AU OC)**

 **Chapter 1,**

 **Southwest of Myr**

 **The Disputed Lands**

 **Essos**

The parchment had long since become weary; the ink almost-illegible. Yet still, he read it once more. In the lamplight, he sat still and silent; assembling his mind into some semblance of structure.

He had heard many mention of the turmoil and plights that were afflicting his homeland. Ironborn pillaging the eastern shores, Northmen and Rivermen up in arms, Baratheons and Tyrells marching or shipping troops, while Dorne and the Vale stood at the ready. House Lannister – his family – besot on all sides.

To say nothing of tales comes from the east. Men out of Slaver's bay spoke tales of a dragon goddess scorching all in her path. But the half-crazed mutterings of charlatans and pirates were the least of his worries.

Even so, he had never imagined that his house could lose. After all, the Ironborn were better sailors then fighters, more preoccupied with taking as much loot or women as possible before they scurried their pathetic hides back to their bleak wet rocks. The North and Trident were being led by a boy who had seen less of warfare than most destriers. The Vale was ruled by a boy that, most disturbingly, was still at his mother's breast and Dorne, for all their ferocious tenacity, had the fewest men of any of the seven kingdoms.

On the other hand - most importantly of all - the Crown had the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West; his own lord uncle, Tywin Lannister. He had never seen anyone with a stronger will than he. He would have made greater king than any of the those that had ruled in living memory.

Nonetheless, Ser Jaime's capture had overturned the table. The Starks were gaining land, hostages and morale with every victory. Cersei's letter was the final arrow in the eye. Things had become more dire then he could predicted. He had to return. With haste.

The entrance flaps of his tent were pulled open to permit the admission of dazzling wind-blown sand shrouding a tall man wearing a naught but purple breeches of well-made cotton, embroidered with golden lions and kept firmly in place around his broad waist by a sash of stunning feathers ornate golden bracers engraved with ancient runes from the Summer Islands.

He turned his head slowly, examining his visitor out the corner of his eye.

The new occupant of his pavilion had passed for a living giant in many a drunk's eyes. Such was his size that his chambers, despite being larger than most tavern halls and taller than the spiny, leave-less trees that colonised in this region, his guest was struggling to keep his head below the tent's willowy canopy.

He was quiet though, and limber for man of his scope, with skin as dark and as smooth as onyx. A ugly deep gash ran down his face, crossing his high nasal bridge from the left. His powerful jaw was home to a large jagged beard, tied at it's end into a fluid decorative knot.

Conversely, his cranium was bare of any hair but the dense, swept-back, orderly locks that made their way across the middle of his scalp. His hair was often a sight to behold as each lock was of a different colour; some of vivid Tyroshi green, others sparkling Lysean blue and the pride of the lot – a stunningly rich Bravoosi purple.

The most defining characteristic of the man though, was his torso. Beside it's obvious bulky chiselled muscles, it was covered from apex to base in a swirling mass of tattoos depicting all manner of creatures and landscapes.

From clear peaks to obscure monsters, his body was a living tapestry of ivory ink with all kinds of stories to tell. 'the greatest irony was that for all his body can convey to the world, he himself could communicate as much as a babe or a dog could.' Rylan concluded. He did not know much of his friend's history or life before that had met in the Purple Harbour. Hardly Jaq's fault though; His tongue wasn't of much use in it's current state.

"Yes, Jaq? What is it?" He detested being interrupted while deep in thought but he could always make time for a friend. The Black Titan of Braavos, Jaquar Zalan - informally known to a few as Jaq - was his right-hand, spearheading his vanguard.

Steadfast as an oak, with strength that would make most bears envious. Rylan had given him the warhammer as a gift; taking a page from King Robert's book – not that he ever read one. Wielding his mighty warhammer in battle and a falchion in close combat, he made for a terrifying image – both to friends and foes. He had ridden with him in over three dozen battles and could be relied upon to follow any command. No matter how suicidal they may appear.

While that may seem to display a lack of mental aptitude, in truth it simple exemplified the level trust that existed between them. Jaq had saved his life in numerous clashes – the Battle of the Silent Sands or the Fall of the Desert King, to name a few – just as he had saved his. " _Friendships forged in the flames of war were as strong as Valyrian steel and twice as useful"._ Father had once stated.

Jaq pointed outwards and, as was typical of him, said little by speech but conveyed much by grunts and gestures. It had taken Rylan a long time – an extensive amount of time- to understand his companion's method of communication. He was positive, though, that Jaq appreciated his dedication and to be able to regain his lost capacity to speak. characteristic

"The sun is rising," he seemed to say "a new day approaches."

Nodding to give his acknowledgement, Rylan rose, stretched gave Jaq a friendly clap on the shoulder and made his way out to take stock of the day. Donning a light wool red tunic and breeches, he covered his eyes as he witnessed the return of light to the world. The slowly heating sand stretched to the horizon like a sea of refined gleaming honey to reach the sun's embrace.

Mesmerised, he nearly missed the glint of the curved dagger that thrust forward from the side, threatening to claim his right eye. With a speed he had gained from encountering such unforeseen attacks for nearly half a dozen years, he swiftly pulled his head rearward while placing a firm grasp upon the blade's handle, wrenching it from the grip of his assailant. Disarmed but unperturbed, his would-be aggressor gave her renowned shark-toothed grin. "You're getting sloppy, Lord Commander. Mayhaps my efforts have begun to take their toll on you?"

Rylan returned in full with a grin of his own. He had recently insisted on the use of the Common Tongue, in place of the Low Valyrian that was naturally spoken between his personnel. Clearly, it was working. He could only detect a mild accent in her speech. The practice would be of great assistance where they were heading.

"It is certainly within the realm of possibility, Ves. Even if it is about as likely as swarm of blood-flies emerging from my arsehole. It is also far more probable that I've simply been pitying you." In truth, her attempts _had_ been improving but he'd rather truly be stabbed than tell her that. Her ego had to be contained, lest it smother her; and, of course, her daily challenges did in fact keep him on his toes.

Silver haired, silver eyed and silver tongued, his left-hand was Vespa Varallia had broken the hearts of the lucky and… _plucked out_ the hearts of those not so fortunate. She sported a rugged durable silver leather cuirass that was somehow simultaneously protective and revealing, yet not too restrictive of rapid movements; completed by a silver-plated steel guard that ran from her left shoulder to her left fist. Slung over her back was her ever present double-cured bow, made of supple golden-wood from the goldenheart trees of the Summer Isles, that she compulsively kept in good condition.

He had bought it for her as a name-day gift, acting upon the recommendation of Maester Edgarth, and though she hadn't been very grateful, she more than made up for it with her consistently high ability. _Only the best for the best._ She had smirked.

At five-and-ten, she was a woman-grown but oft acted more a child than his brothers Martyn or Willem ever had. What she lacked in discipline, however, she made up for in raw talent - and a lot of it. By the Seven, he certain that if the day ever came when she was serious enough to truly try to kill him, then she just might.

A former slave, she was born in Lys trained in the art of love-making, dancing, singing and music. She was bought quickly thanks to her remarkably distinctive Valyrian features, even by Lys's standards. She was a wealthy merchant's plaything for two years; more than enough time to ascertain his routine, contacts and assets.

Fleeing from Lys by a ship she had stolen from him – though, rather significantly, not before murdering him in his bed – and intoxicated by freedom, she'd crashed ashore during a storm not a day's march from Tyrosh.

Rylan had found her half-buried in silt and hungrier than a lizard-lion. The question of what to do with her was put forward; Half his men wanted to leave her, and the rest didn't particularly care. When one offered her a place by his bed-side, she speared his throat with a sharpened concealed piece of driftwood faster than they could blink. So, when Rylan had offered her a place within his ranks, there had been few complaints and fewer still who would had the balls to air them.

Years of performance had ingrained in her the importance of precise movements and fleet feet. Combined with her dextrous skill with instruments, she had become a truly outstanding thief – or assassin – with the best archery he had seen of anyone in the Free Cities or beyond.

This more than qualified her for the position of Chief Archer. She is responsible for training, battle combat and maintenance of all arterial troops and weaponry such as bows, trebuchets and scorpions.

With her silver features, clothing and gifts, men had taken to calling her SwiftSilver. A beautiful silver statue brought to life by some god, to aid us or plague us. She had fully accepted this identity, going so far as to buy silver-dyed clothing and silver-plated weapons along with painting her bow - and arrows – a shimmering silver. She had truly taken it for herself and 'made it her strength' as Tyrion was want to say.

Unfortunately, she was also something of an unapologetic sadist, inflicting pain was most amusing for her, so much so that many of his men too weary of tangling with her. As such, he was her primary target and/or sparring partner.

Not quite what he had in mind but he enjoyed their spars. Not to mention having a comical little sister – albeit a murderous one - was decidedly amusing. Almost like a combination of Tyrion and Cersei.

"Where is Edgarth? I would like to reach Tyrosh as soon as possible." Vespa sat on her customary perch at the entrance to her own tent and gave a shrug.

"Haven't seen the Greybeard. He's doubtless trying out another suicidal _experiment_." She gave a giggle. Of course, _she_ always enjoyed Edgarth's self-proclaimed "advances in science".

As useful as some were, such as the firepowder that allowed for easy demolition of holdfast walls and modified milk-of-the-poppy that alleviated pain but didn't cause drowsiness or fatigue. In truth though, more often than not his experiments were more destructive than productive.

"I assume Perzys is off somewhere, revering the sun."

"Such a thoughtful assumption. I believe I now see why you're the boss." Vespa gave a predictably sassy response, followed by an uncomfortably low curtsy.

Rylan shook his head, unsurprised at her cheeky demeanour. "Indeed. Well, I fear that I am too impoverished to continue both of these classes of swordplay at the moment. You are always welcome try and assault me again later, once your bruised pride has had enough time to heal itself." He turned with a flourish, beginning his journey to the mess tent. While no sane man would turn their back to Vespa, he was sure that his both authority and their bond would restrain her for the time being.

He subtly peeked over his shoulder.

Half sure.

Having not gone ten paces, he was greeted by the sight of a makeshift camp the size of a large town. Thousands of tents dotted the landscape, interrupted the occasional guard-post or stable; All embroidered with the golden lion of Lannister upon a field of royal purple. His pride welled up in his breast. This was the temporary home of the main bulk of his forces, the sell-sword company he had spent nearly a third of his life building up – The Lion's Pride.

Among all the purple and gold, he caught glimpse of numerous early risers; those who had the dawn patrol or wished to train, in addition to several drunks still passed out outside their tents. He returned their bows of deference with greetings of the morn and wish them an uneventful beat.

He entered the mess tent – an immense structure capable of holding two hundred men comfortably - to engage the cook and break his fast. While he normally received his food in his command tent, as befit his rank, he took pleasure in coming to get it himself every now and then. "What have you got for us, Will?" he yelled. "Whatever I give ya!" came the brusque reply.

Old, overweight and half-deaf, One-foot Will was a well-travelled man who had seen more foreign lands than most men could name. Born in Oldtown, he had served for four-and-a-half decades as cook on the _Light Bearer_ , a mercantile vessel that transported spices, silks and wine, in addition those who could pay their passage, all over the known world. Losing a foot to pirate raid though – a story that was seemingly too embarrassing for words – convinced him to seek employ on land. _"After all,"_ Will declared, _"what else could I do? Wear a wooden foot? Ha!"_ He had been working for the Rylan ever since.

Will emerged from behind his storeroom full of high piled provisions, making his usual slow shuffle over. His potbelly and disability, Rylan knew, belied the power in his frame. Arms thick with muscle and a stern visage that tolerated no nonsense. "Oh! M'lord! I dint' kno' it was you. Still, wiv' these hungry 'lot, one can't be too careful."

"No one's been giving you too much trouble, I should hope."

"Nah, not much Lord Ryland. They wouldn' dare, ya see. Not if they wan ta be fed or lose a foot." Will guffawed, as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Though, perhaps you simply had to lose foot to see the humour in it.

Rylan smiled good-humouredly. "Well, I'm sure they both do and don't. In any case, I am ravenous." Will had cooked them a particularly splendid fast. Sour chunks of lamb with butter and garlic mushrooms, floating in a sweet stew. Eaten with softened bread and washed down with cool Selhorys pale green wine.

It was thanks to their temporary layover at Selhorys that they were so well-stocked with food, weapons, supplies; everything and anything they might require to complete their haphazard expedition.

After finishing the meal, mopping up the last remnants of stew with the crust of the bread, Rylan commended the chef's expertise. He pushed aside his stool and stumbled out, only slightly woozy. He gazed, eyelids partly closed, at the sun; making out the small figure standing alone at the summit of a minor hillock, arms raised.

Pant...step. Pant...step. Pant.

The ascension of the hillock's coarse exterior kept a insipidly familiar routine. It was more of hardened sand dune than a true hill or mountain. Finally reaching the peak, Rylan stopped to catch a much need breath. The figure, a young man no older than one-and-twenty, had not moved so much as fibre of his being. The remains of a bonfire, long extinguished, lay at his feet. Suddenly, without warning, his lips began to move, chanting.

Rylan quietly took a seat behind him, legs dangling loosely over the edge. The man's sombre voice was being carried over the wind; as if being murmured by the earth itself. _"-f Light, we thank you for bestowing upon us the sphere of life, light and warmth. It drives away the darkness and restores our fire in our hearts. Without your great gift, this world and all it's inhabitants would cease to be. We ask for your help and guidance; both in our voyage and all our otherworldly matters. For the night is dark and full of terrors._ "

His words, chanted in the ancient tongue of the dragonlords, seemed resonate within in his soul. Rylan shivered, as if to physically drive out the bizarre sensation. He gave a polite coughed, to alert the unknowing priest to his presence.

The slim man lowered his arms slowly and revolved around on his axis. His eyes were as bright as miniature stars, shining from beneath his unique monkey-tailed hat. He had shoulder-length black hair, darker than night. His face was longer than most, with a slender nose and thin lips, hidden beneath a black cloth half-mask.

He was dressed in a dark surcoat emblazoned with the fiery heart of his god on the anterior, surrounded on either side by the prancing lion of Lannister. On embroidered his back, in brilliant crimson and ominous grey respectively, two great arms encircled a man coloured in white, each grasping for possession of him. _"The eternal struggle."_ Or so he had been told.

His arms, legs and shins were loosely protected by light but durable red armour. Strangely, Rylan had never seen him overheat or sweat, despite them being presently located in a desert.

"I see you're still the last to sleep, in addition to being the first to rise, Perzys," Rylan observed "But then again, I have never yet seen you sleep. So it seems quite conceivable that you don't sleep at all."

If Jaq was his righthand and Vespa his left, then Perzys Aeksio Syndor was his back. He was solemn, serious and stalwart, in both his commitment to his Lord Commander and his Lord of Light. He was a priest of the widely worshipped – at least in Essos – fire god, known to all as R'hllor; the Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow.

Perzys, the son of a YiTish sailor, had been born to a poor but devout family in the last stronghold of the Valyrians, the oldest and proudest Free City – Volantis.

At a young age, he was given over to the largest red temple in the city, to be raised as a warrior-priest by it's followers. His dedication and discipline had impressed them to such a degree that the High Priest Benerro had taken him under his wing personally and saw to his training. He was taught the art of worship, of language and geography, of sums and combat until he was considered outstanding. His purpose: to travel across the globe using his acquired knowledge to convert more people to path of R'hllor. In fact, his name was meant ' _Fire Lord's Shadow'_ in High Valyrian; symbolizing his role as guardian of his lord's faith.

They had met in front of the grand Red Temple of Volantis; the Lion's Pride had received their payment for completing a contract issued by the ruling triarchs of the city. While Rylan respected his strange religion and customs, he cared little for it. He was more enthralled by Perzys proficiency with weaponry and tactics. More specifically, his praise-worthy skill with his signature weapon – a red halberd on a shaft of polished Pentosi bloodwood – on foot and on horseback.

Perzys had given a public display of his prowess, defeating a group of ten bravos. The purpose was to encourage more freemen to join the temple and receive similar training. It was also a nifty was to gain more followers.

Rylan had approached Perzys with a proposal – as the captain of mercenary company, he frequently travelled all over the eastern continent. In return for his allegiance, Rylan would allow him into his company. This would allow Perzys to fulfil his duty by preaching the Red God's religion in most of the cities of the east - and possibly, one day, the west. The deal was finalized under Benerro's watchful eye; by dusk that same evening, the two young men had left as new men-in-arms.

Perzys had since served as the leader of his mounted cavalry. Due to his close age, insightful advice and reliability, Rylan considered him to be his closest friend; if not his older brother. An improvement, as far as he was concerned, to the impatient, self-absorbed brother that Lancel had been.

A small amused twinkle appeared in the Perzys 's eyes; it was one of the infrequent signs of emotion he exhibited. "I assure you, my lord, as blessed as the Red Lord has made me, I too still feel the burning necessity of rest."

"I am glad to hear it. It would hardly be fair to spar a man too exhausted to be of much challenge. At any rate, I shall soon give the order to disassemble the camp and pack up. We shall need to keep a steady pace, so as to make it to Tyrosh within three nights. Please find Maester Edgarth and relay to him my intentions. Westeros awaits." Perzys gave a silent nod and bow, before rapidly making his way down, as surefooted any mountain goat.

Rylan paused for a moment, staring wordlessly out to the west. The tranquil atmosphere was shattered by the cry of the great feathered hunter, returning from wherever it had gone. He lifted his arm, keeping it straight, unmoving. In a flash, the bird's talons had wrapped around his right arm, _almost_ painlessly. Training him to do that much had been as excruciating as it had been frustrating.

The bird spread it's wings, displaying their noteworthy length, followed by another piercing shriek. "Alright! Alright. Enough with the noise. We all know how splendid your wings are, oh mighty one." Rylan chastised. He gently stroked it's soft white underbelly, which contrasted with it's warm brown wings and back.

The bird was a gyrfalcon, the largest of all falcons, and a magnificent specimen at that. Unfortuantely, it also knew that fact. He was conceited, greedy and fearless. Rylan had accordingly named him Argilac – after the famously arrogant and final Stormking. But He still made for decent company as well as a useful tool to find land in open sea and to deliver letters faster, not to mention more securely, than ravens - since it had been trained to avoid enemy arrows or animals.

By now the sun had almost reached it's highest point, signalling the imminent onset of noon. It was time to go. On to Tyrosh, to Braavos, then across the Narrow Sea…. to home.


	3. Chapter 2

**The Encroaching Darkness (ASOIAF/GOT AU OC)**

 **AN: Sorry for the missed update. I was struck by an illness last week and the world didn't wait for me to catch-up.**

 **Also, This is what Rylan's sigil would appear like.**

 **Chapter 1,**

 **The Narrow Sea**

 **Off the coast of the Crownlands**

The sea spray stung. The sun was overbearing. The wind was ferocious; it seemed the Drowned God himself wished for them all to join him.

It had been so long ago, that he had crossed this stretch of water. A decade of learning, training, fighting and mastering. He'd left a boy and returned as…. a man? Well, that wasn't his judgement to make.

The captain came to stand with him at the prow. A large belly and stocky legs were obscured by the sing largest beard he had ever seen. Broad shouldered, pale-skin, as hairy as a bear and shorter than he was. All in all – an archetypical specimen of the Ibbenese. He wore all-green tunic and breeches, overlapped by a purple shawl with gold lining.

Together they look out to sea, the great blue snake that encircled the world. After a short while, the captain turned to inform him, in that gruff voice of his, that they would shortly arrive to Westeros. Rylan gravely nodded. Their short transit in Braavos had briefly alleviated his austere mood. It had been a delightful journey back in time – meeting his former mentor, Ferrego Antaryon, the Sea Lord of Braavos.

They had arrived to Tyrosh in due time, in thanks to their strict marching scheduled. After resupplying his war galleys, they had boarded and subsequently left port for Braavos. The sea had been less than pleasant though, with the early arrival unseen storms but his fleet could more than withstand it. It was made of thirteen dromonds or war galleys. They each could carry one hundred and seventy-five sailors, the permanent residents of his ships, with the new addition to up to two hundred men-at-arms. All in all, his force amounted to four thousand and a half strong. A thousand and half sailors and oarsmen, and the three thousand he had marched with.

The journey was slightly cramped however – he had never taken his full strength to sea at once before. Nevertheless, this could be easily remedied. During his years of placement in Braavos, he had witnessed the Arsenal, the heart of shipbuilding in Braavos, create a new war galley in a single day.

The Titan had loomed above them - it's sword rose, unending, parting the clouds; A black fang piercing the heavens. An old friend welcoming him home. Truly, it was the greatest marvel of man that he had ever witnessed. Greater than the triple wall of Qarth, the ancient Valyrian roads or the Long Bridge of Volantis.

Passing the filthy hazardous Ragman's harbour, they had dropped anchor in the more illustrious Purple Harbour, to the west of the Sea Lord's palace. Thankfully, Argilac was feeling too lethargic to bother causing trouble as he was placed inside his gilded cage. As Rylan disembarked with his captains and maester, they received the strangest, most wide-eyed looks – as if a dragon had come ashore. It made sense though; only the Braavosi were allowed to dock here.

In fact, several guardsmen had blocked their passage, until their captain had recognized who he was and speedily apologized on their behalf. Rylan simply waved it off. It was only natural. After all, it been a long time since he had returned.

The sight and smell of the city that he had been sent to as a ward was nostalgic and enjoyable for him, as it was for Jaq. The big lug had, after receiving his consent, wandered off. No doubt to encounter old acquaintances and rekindle older friendships. Rylan would often allow his subordinates to do so, during their short stays in their home cities – though it was much for him as it was for them. With mingling came contacts, with contacts came information, with information came power.

Bar the guards he posted to watch the ships, he then gave the rest of his men the same privilege. They would be free to visit the taverns and brothels during their stay. It would take three days for the new additions to be made to his fleet. He then acquired a canal boat to ferry him and the three others to his destination.

Soon enough the fog parted, just as the Sea Lord's palace came into view. It's magnificent golden domes were held up by smooth white walls, with lines of immense Myrish glass windows descending vertically, reflecting the midday sun, giving off the impression that something divine must reside in such a glorious abode. The familiar golden thunderbolt was still revolving, continuously, since the day he had first glimpsed it at the top of the central principal dome. He remembered arriving here for the very first time and being reminded of Casterly Rock, with it's magnitude, splendour and show of wealth.

Their barge came to a halt at the foot of the chiselled stair. After docking, he self-assuredly led the way, climbing the steps and striding beneath the golden arches that lay ahead of the entrance of the palace. A rank of heavily armed guardsmen stood opposite them, wearing tunics of the striped purple and blue-almost-black colours of their liege, in addition to parti-coloured breeches. They all wielded identical slim steel poleaxes, with a pointed apex and a front-facing axe.

As one they parted, forming parallel walls of flesh, allowing them unobstructed entry into the home of the ruler of Braavos.

At the it's end, they were greeted by the one man he dreaded to meet again. Gangly and tall, dressed in same colours as the rest, with more bone than meat on his frame, the man appeared to be staring daggers at him. A pointed curved nose lay beneath his one hairy brown while his curly black hair came to rest atop it. His mouth was drawn into a sneer that slowly grew in size the closer they approached. A polished rapier rested in the purple leather scabbard tied around his waist. Green-flecked-with-gold and brown glares clashed until finally one gave in, brown blinking with spite.

The man coughed, clearing his throat unnecessarily loudly. "Welcome back, _Ser_ Ryland. I see you have returned to the lord's palace with more than you left it with. If you _Westerosi_ can call picking up a stray, a maegi and a mummer an improvement." His voice was raspy, lips never once changing from the sneer he had plastered upon his face.

Edgarth and Perzys, never ones to take offense, simply remained perfectly still. On the other hand, to his left, Vespa had an angelic look on her face that was a little betrayed by the fact that she was, almost imperceptibly, drawing the silver kukri that was sheathed behind her waist. Rylan subtly raised his left hand to calm her, never breaking eye contact with the man.

"Well, seeing I would bet your weight in gold that any of them could slay these rows of striped peacocks, I _would_ say that they are an immense enhancement to my fighting forces. But then again, that bet wouldn't be worth much. Are you starving yourself, Qarro? For the courtesans, mayhaps? Your nose is sharper than your sword is. I hope you're at least capable of protecting the Honourable Lord. If not, then you'd best start seeking another, less hazardous, occupation," His face had steadily changed in hue during his little speech, becoming redder by the minute.

Rylan started past him, before stopping parallel to his ear. "Because the next time you insult my companions, I will allow Vespa carve out your still beating misshapen heart for me to crush in one hand." While he spoke, Vespa gave Qarro an ungodly large fanged grin, whereas Perzys silently frowned at him, fingers twitching. Rylan pushed past him, arms swinging firmly at his sides, continuing his journey into main hall. He still missed Syrio Forel; he was a _hundred times_ the man that Qarro Volentin could ever be.

Ascending the grand marble staircase as he had done a thousand times before, they eventually reached the uppermost floor; at the end of which stood the enormous imposing entrance of the great hall. As the moved along the lengthy corridor, Rylan turned to his cohorts. "I hope I needn't mention that I expect you all to be on your best conduct. More specifically, Edgarth, I entrust you to ensure that Vespa doesn't break something or… someone."

"Of course, my lord. I shall do my utmost to make sure that the young lady behaves herself. Under my careful watch, she won't be hurting anyone nor stealing anythi-Lady Vespa! Put that down immediately! _What did the young lord just say?!"_ Without warning, the colossal doors opened unhurriedly, revealing the most splendid hall in the land.

An elegant polished mosaic served as the floor of the chamber, depicting renowned landmarks, gallant heroes and astonishing animals from far-off lands. Rays of light shone through refined Myrish glass windows arranged in a single longitudinal row on both sides, between sections of marble wall from which hung numerous purple banners bearing the lord's standard, all beneath a cream ceiling adorned with floral golden patterns and three cultured crystal chandeliers each mounted by a hundred unused candles.

At the end of the chamber he spied Sea Lord Antaryon, siting upon his throne of gilded Valyrian steel, attended by four burly fully-armoured guards, in addition his steward and servants. Rylan marched forwards, with the posture and pace for lord as was customary. He had dressed for the occasion, in black leather doublet and breeches with a central vertical column of golden buttons, black boots, as well as purple velvet cape lined with golden fur.

Stopping in front of the lord's throne, he gave a deep ceremonial bow. "My lord, I have returned to your great city."

He has heard that an illness had overtaken his old mentor but he had never expected this. The formerly formidable Sea Lord had aged three decades in his absence. His once well-defined face and eyes that were bursting with life was reduced to a sagging pock-marked bag of skin and dull glassy orbs that stared in to the distance.

With obvious concentrated effort, his mentor moved his head laterally in order to better observe his former student. After several moments of silence, in a low hoarse voice that still carried the echoes of his previously commanding tone, he replied. "So, I can see. It has been six years since we had last gazed upon each other. However, I have made certain to follow your progress. Does that surprise you? I am old and sick, my boy. Not ignorant. How has the mercenary life treated you?"

"In truth, far better than I had anticipated. I have experience, reliable companions, seasoned soldiers and more gold than I could carry. In fact, the Iron Bank handles most of my finances. The hardest part, as with most things in life, was getting started. But with victory comes renown and with renown, comes respect. Between our early successes as a company and my family name's association with all things golden, we soon had more men at our disposal than we knew what to do with. I chose my standard to bear the golden lion of my family, upon a field of lush purple, in honour of my debt to you."

"And yet your company, the Lion's Pride, is not the largest nor is it the smallest. Why are your number not more, if things were as you say?"

"Simply put, I saw no reason in having the largest independent army in Essos. Your average knight in Westeros is worth a dozen men-at-arms. I simply applied that principle here. True, my forces are not as large as the Golden Company, and yet I adamantly believe that any one of my men is worth ten of their own. I have ensured that they are drilled in all manner of combat to fullest extent possible. Trained to ride as well as the Dothraki, loose arrows as accurately as the Summer Islanders and fight as proficiently with sword, spear and lance as the knights of the west."

"That is your terminus, is it not? You shall return to your homeland, after a decade away in a foreign land. I wonder, after spending more than half your young life across the Narrow sea, which is your true home and which the foreign one? How the world has changed! Westeros has almost as many kings as kingdoms. What do you hope to achieve?"

Rylan had to take time to think about that one. In his haste to return, he hadn't considered what his exact role would be. "I… don't particularly have a specific goal in mind. I do have wants and desires but they're not exactly goals. I suppose I will do what I must to make sure that my house will come out of this as the strongest. Be there five kings or ten. Even if Westeros has to bleed more blood than it has ever done."

Ferrego remained silent to that, but his eyes never left Rylan's face. It was quite unnerving; For a fleeting moment, he could swear the lord's eyes had regained their legendary intensity, examining him. For a short while, the only noises heard was sound of Vespa's restless fidgeting or Edgarth's introspective mumblings. Eventually, Ferrego stroked his short beard before replying. "I see…in any case, I am suitably certain that you will find a solution for whatever problems that the future has in store for you. Simply do as much as you can, with what you have. Action can may not bring happiness but there is no happiness without action."

Rylan firmly nodded. "As you say. I shal-"

"Now can we get some food in here! You! Steward, are you blind? Why are my guest's goblets empty?!"

Rylan was nonplussed, before laughing. For a man said to be failing from ailment, he had still the lungs of babe. Vespa was laughing along with him – though for very different reasons. Drinking was her favourite pastime; after murder. Servant after servant had then entered bring more plates of food than was possible to be consumed. The rest of their stay had been spent talking, feasting and fighting, as well as numerous games of cyvasse – of which he only won a handful.

He was brought out his reminiscing by sounds of dull footsteps. The captain had evidently left during and returned without his knowledge – he was subtler than a man his build would normally be Rylan had to grant him that. "My lord, we are approaching Dragonstone. What course would you like use to take?"

Rylan considered for a moment. Dragonstone was Stannis Baratheon's seat and fortress. According to all he had spoken to, Stannis was apparently amassing a host of men-at-arms and pirates. It would be wise to launch a pre-emptive attack without knowledge of his exact numbers or a map of the black rock itself. On the other hand, while he was an obstacle to be eliminated, especially given his proximity from the capital, he was far from the priority.

Out of the four enemy kings, Robb Stark and Renly Baratheon were the priority. Both had hosts on the march; Stark already had numberous victories and the younger Baratheon had the largest army by far. Given what little information he had at his disposal, he made up his mind. He rotated to face the captain and declare his orders.

"I want to this ship, along with two others to turn starboard and around Crackclaw Point. We'll dock at Maidenpool and ride to Harrenhal from there. The sailors shall remain with the ships until I command otherwise. The rest the fleet shall travel port-ward and on to King's Landing. Remain as far out of the way of Dragonstone as possible. If you should be attacked by a pirate ship or some other independent vessel, then destroy it and take what they have. As far as I am concerned, it would their own foolish audacity that damned them. Set anchor when you arrive at harbour and hold until I join you. Should anyone trouble you, present them the letter I have written and sealed. Is that understood?"

The captain nodded and without further words set about his task. He had already proven to be as competent as he had been when they had first met. But then most Ibbenese said to be skilful when it came to anything involving sea travel. A rare example of an accurate stereotype, he observed.

His fleet of twelve ships grew had grown larger by the addition of three new ships. Thanks to the massive increase in space, he had reshuffled the arrangement men aboard the rest of the fleet. Now each ship comfortably carried one hundred oarsmen and two hundred men-at-arms. Soon enough, the ship was he standing upon began turning to the right. It was his new flagship and it was a grand thing – a beautiful, sleek double-decked war galley. Her upper deck half covered with scorpions and had catapults mounted fore and aft. She is daunting and rapid, her sails purple with the gold lion of House Lannister sewed on them. He had named it The Dominion as it, along with the rest of his fleet, was where he ruled uncontested. None stood higher. Though that would soon change, he mused. In Westeros, he – and by extension, his company – would be under the power of both his lord uncle and his kingly cousin.

The last time he had met Joffrey, he had been a skinny boy of six, desperate for approval. In fact, the boy had taken to him quickly. After all, he hardly had any male relatives close to him in age at the capital. He was hardly kingly material then; more of misunderstood child with large responsibilities awaiting him. Although, at the time, Rylan had heard some disturbing rumours… something about a pregnant cat. Now though, it would seem he was starting wars and chopping heads left and right. Rylan did not know what awaited him ashore but as they sailed along the rocky cliffs of the Crownland shore, his mind felt electrified and his heart afire; he was more excited than he had been in a long, long time.


	4. Chapter 3

**The Encroaching Darkness (ASOIAF/GOT AU OC)**

 **AN:** Alright! Let the fun begin!

 **Chapter 3,**

 **Maidenpool,**

 **The Riverlands,**

 **Westeros**

They rode hard through the Riverlands – for a kingdom of rivers, yet it was more burnt than wet. Village after village was destroyed, crops had been burnt and hordes of small-folk were slaughtered. Among the ruins, those fortunate enough to live gathered what remained and fled. He would have liked to ask them what had happened or, rather, who had done this but there were more crows than people, as far as he could see. They had stopped to make camp as the sun began to fall, lighting fires and stationing watchmen to guard against whatever or whoever had deigned to stay. But as the sun rose, they had risen, packed, mounted and left. Their only witnesses were the occupiers of the trees, swinging with the morning breeze and smelling as bad as only the seven hells could. More men, women and children were hanging from the foliage, than he had yet seen alive during his still-brief return home. Soldiers, mothers, little tots - all hung as equally unearthly bulky leaves.

They travelled west, keeping to the king's road, lest they lose their way. It was not as if any would dare try them, be they were bandits, Northmen or wolves; not if they wished to keep their skull attached to their necks or pelts on their back. It was not long into their second day that they came upon the eastern shore of The God's Eye. The renowned island-within-a-lake was an easy landmark to identify. The largest lake in Westeros, it meant they were not far from black castle of a fallen house. Before the days end, they were approaching the place where the Lannister forces had taken for a base - and the location of his lord uncle. In fact, as soon as they were within sight, a raven flew from the battlements. No doubt the sight of six hundred heavily armed, fully armoured, troops in unfamiliar colours had instigated an alarm. Good. It simply meant that his uncle's sentries hadn't grown complacent in their duties. Executing their own men would only serve to lower the morale even more. Nonetheless, he couldn't allow that raven to spread word of an unknown army - to friends or foes.

He looked directly at the departing bird, eyes set firmly upon it, before releasing a short shrill whistle. The raven must have heard it. It glanced back at them, at him, then quickly turning away. It hadn't noticed the shadow being cast on it's wingspan, by the creature hidden in the sun's glare. As sudden as thunder, it struck. The pink mist on the wind was the only sign of what had occurred. By the time Argilac had returned to his perch upon Rylan's shoulder, blood on his beak, they had all arrived to barred black gate, above which the lion of Lannister fluttered in the breeze.

"Halt!"

A knight stood immediately above them, flanked on both sides by a row of crossbowmen. He was in full mail and plate, no doubt in preparation for a fight, with a crimson cloak lined with gold. His shield was engraved with some sort of scorpion.

"In the name of King Joffrey Baratheon, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoyne and First Men-" Evidently, he was quite set on doing the whole spiel that followed Joff's name. Vespa, just as evidently, didn't feel like sitting quietly during it either. She started trotting in circle, mouth silently opening and closing, openly mocking the knight. A few of his men snorted and laughed. Jaq and Perzys, on the other hand, stood at the ready by his side. Rylan noticed a couple of the knight's men double take at Jaquar, with his immense size, nervously glancing at one another.

" -nd Protector of the realm, state your name and purpose."

It was time. Whatever he did from this point would reflect upon him, his reputation and that of his men. He urged his destrier forward, his hands loosely gripping the reins. His back stood straight, his shoulders squared. He wore a form-fitting black leather tunic with little decoration besides asymmetrical golden buttons, black leather boots and a black cloak. He hadn't known who they might face upon the roads and as the commander, should the need arise, he might have had personally to flee. Wearing inconspicuous clothing served this purpose.

"I, good Ser, am Ryland Lannister, son of Kevan Lannister and nephew of Lord Tywin Lannister. I would very much like this gate to opened to my men and I. Is that understood?" He looked directly at the knight while he spoke, nose upturned, frown clear.

The knight looked uncertain, looking from the lion on his banner to his green eyes and golden hair drawn into a ponytail. Finally, seeing something familiar in Rylan' s silent serious demeanour, he called out for the gate to be opened.

Slowly the dark gates were opened to them, just as darker darkness descended. He dismounted in the main courtyard. This castle…. Was astounding. He snorted. Was this a land of giants? The largest lake he had ever seen, close to the one of the largest castles to have ever existed. Rylan was brought of contemplation by the decent of the knight. Up close, he had scruffier face and a portlier belly than he had seen outside.

He bent his knee into the mud as a heavy shower began to fall. "My lord, my apologies if I seemed obstinate. In these times of war, one has to be careful. Your lord uncle is awaiting your presence in his chambers."

Rylan nodded, then realised that the man remained unmoving. "Uh…thank you for the message. And you've already been forgiven. Keep your good work and remain vigilant." Rylan instructed the other three to ensure that the rest of the men were given food and board. Then he made off, keeping beneath the awning to avoid the rain. He wasn't used to people bending the knee to him. Something he would have to correct before he arrived in King's Landing.

In Essos, men would stand and stare into his eyes, both on the battlefield and off it. He never bothered making his own men bend the knee – they already knew he was in charge. This was because in the disputed lands, he learned the one universal truth, the greatest lesson of all - strength mattered most. Unlike here, where men cowed beneath the mention of your name.

He came to a solid oak door, guarded by four heavily armed men. As one, they moved aside without his prompting and opened the door. The room was dim, lit only by the light form the hearth. The door closed resolutely shut behind him.

"Sit down." His eyes looked around for the source of the voice, body still, unmoving. There! Just as a distant lightning bolt collided with the earth, the silhouette of a man taller than himself appeared in front of the open window. Not needing to be asked again, he quickly walked and sat in the closest seat to the largest one by the window.

He patiently waited for his lord to take his seat. His uncle had aged well for a man in his sixties. He wore a high-collared long black overcoat fastened with central buttons and brown leather belt. His uncle sat back and examined him in turn. His eyes, green flecked with gold, was so alike Rylan's own, it as if he was looking at himself. It was… unnerving, to say the least. He couldn't speak out of turn but he couldn't leave… thankfully further examination was put on hold. Clearly, his uncle had seen enough. But had he seen anything promising?

"You're back from your time in the east, Ryland. I trust a decade away from family and home was put to good use. What have you learned?"

Rylan swallowed the ball of spit that had unconsciously formed in his mouth. He had learnt many things but which of them was the correct answer in this situation alluded him. "Uncle, it's good to see you are well. I believe my time abroad was well spent. I have learnt numerous things. Essosi customs, their languages, their military tactics and weaponry, banking methods, trade routes, essential commodities, past and current allegiances and rivalries."

Lord Tywin nodded noiselessly, eye closed. His eyes then slowly opened as he leaned forward. "But what have you learned?" Rylan was perplexed. It was clearly his uncle was searching for one thing. He racked his brain, trying to remember every experience he had lived and what he had learnt from them. He thought and pondered and contemplated. It came to him, as sudden and simple as lightning from heavens.

He sat up, looked squarely at head of his house and gave his answer. "The only thing that mattered is power. You must be the strongest above all. Morals, as they are, are an illusion. If you believe that something _should_ happen but don't have the strength to make it so, then your ethics are useless. Power is the only true necessity."

His uncle, face unmoved, began to lean back, but Rylan wasn't finished. "But such a power would only last as long you would live. It would shatter like glass upon your demise. Therefore, what you require after achieving such a level of strength, is family. No one in this world matters as much as family. With family you can build, upon trust and blood, something that transcends one person. House Lannister started with Lann the Clever, but did not die with him. Because of family, we stand as solid as the Rock. A power like this can withstand the ages." His uncle's face hadn't changed from it's stoic expression but now it appeared… less severe. Hopefully, he had seen what he had been hoping for.

The door to the grand chamber opened, admitting a small girl carrying more food than would be sensible or even possible for someone her size. Even so, through an obvious show of will, she managed. She wore a boy's worn and dull tunic and breeches, though his uncle didn't appear surprised. He must have ordered this before Rylan had climbed the stairs. The table was quickly cluttered with plenty of fine food.

There were roast boars, stewed mutton, stuffed turkeys, spiced soups, and variety of wines. "Come, we shall eat as we discuss current events and your role in them," Lord Tywin raised a pair of golden goblet encrusted with rubies. "Girl. Fill these goblets. With wine this time." Once full, Lord Tywin raised his goblet as Rylan mimicked him. "To family."

"To family."

With that out of the way, they began to tuck in to their meal. In the meantime, the serving girl stood at their elbows, refilling goblets when necessary. He hadn't had such rich food since Braavos. For a man on the march in a war, Lord Tywin ostensibly felt no practical need to reduce the quality of his meals. Not that he was complaining.

His uncle cleared his throat, then began to speak "I noticed the force you have brought with you. No more than six hundred, I would wager. In particular, I noticed four that stood out more than the rest. An ebony giant, a masked man with a hat, an unchained maester and even a lithe little girl. Care to explain their presence in your army?"

It was phrased as a question but he knew a command when he heard one. Rylan coughed in to a crimson napkin before responding. "Well, to begin with, the giant is widely known in east as the Black Titan. By taking note of your usage of Ser Gregor Clegane, I came to the conclusion that every commander requires a beast. His strength, fearless nature and fear-inducing tattooed appearance all have their uses. His warhammer is lesson learnt from King Robert." His uncle appeared pleased. Or as pleased as he could appear. "The girl is a former slave that I was impressed by, and so I trained her. She's quick, intelligent and talented. She is called Vespa but prefers to go by SwiftSilver. Now, the maester actually has his chains, but in the east such things are often confused with slavery. Which in Braavos, where we had just departed from, is utterly despised. So they are simply stored with the rest of his belongings at the moment. His name is Edgarth. He was born to a knightly house from the Vale. His age has yet to hamper his ability to heal and invent. Infact, he has devised several creations which may be of good help in the battles to come." His uncle appeared intrigued as he pushed on. "The masked fellow is Perzys Syndor. His well-versed in the uses of polearms and halberds, as well as cavalry warefare."

Lord Tywin stroked his chin in contemplation as he spoke. "I see. So, each tool serves a specifc and vital function." Rylan nodded slowly. "In… deed, my lord. They are the best at what they can do."

"In any case, I am pleased to see that you have grown mentally and physically, all while maintaining the honour and prestige that our name commands. You have surpassed my expectations, Nephew." His uncle wiped his mouth with a crimson napkin, rose from his seat and stood, arms crossed behind him, in front of the central hearth. Plainly, the meal – and their reunion - had been concluded. Rylan quietly took his leave as his uncle stared in hearth, face as still and hard as stone.

The day was bright and clear, sunlight breaking through the clouds to illuminate their lives. All the better to read. She didn't know much of warefare or the places named on the parchment but she recognised Robb's name as well as the mentions of troop movements. That fact alone made it all the more important to her. She had to show Gendry what was happening. Maybe Jaqen could help? He _had_ said she could name anyone… but who?

The ground was still muddy and wet though – making her way round the castle was slower than she would have liked. Climbing down a flight of stairs – more falling than anything else – she turned the corner and collided with a something hard and large. A familiar fat chest covered in boiled leather filled her field of view.

She slowly raised her head, praying to all the old gods and the new, that it wasn't who she knew it was. The piggy unshaven face of Amory Lorch, the scum that had personally killed old Yoren, stared back.

"Where you going girl?" came the dreaded question.

"The … armoury, my lord." Was the hopeful answer.

"Why?"

"Lord Tywin sent me." Any chance of bluffing past him was greatly reduced when he promptly grabbed the parchment from her left hand.

"What might this be?"

"Lord Tywin gave it to me."

"What for?"

"To take to the armoury."

"Why would he do that?" It was the question that had no answer that she could think of. This must have been the final nail in her coffin, for Lorch looked convinced that she was clearly lying. She looked down and slowly bent legs, knowing only one thing to do now.

"Let's go and ask him."

She tucked her head under his arm, prepared to sprint as fast as the muddy ground would allow her-

"No need for that, Ser Amory. The girl had received her orders from me but only named my uncle as she did not know who I was."

"O-of course, my lord. I completely understand. I too have orders and will be on my way. Good morrow, my lord." Lorch, who had been about to wring her skinny neck, straightened more and faster than his beefy stomach could allow and marched off beneath the walkway.

She picked herself up and turned to face the mystery voice that had saved her. The green eyes of the golden-haired Lannister boy from the night before, gazed back.


End file.
